In every corner, every nook, and even mounted on tall light poles that lined the driveway and popped up in obscure places of the yard—cameras. Which meant that no one got onto this property without being seen. Colt imagined a cadre of security guys shut up in some room nearby, watching him gape at the house.

He closed his mouth, smiled for the cameras.

So, exactly the place to hole up for a bit while hunting bad terrorists and a killer virus.

Really, the hideaway was comprised of two houses. The main house that faced the river and another house, connected to the first by a breezeway, with a garage space on the lower floor, living space above it.

Grass surrounded the houses, and through the windows on the main floor in the main house, Colt spotted a gorgeous pool facing the river. A long dock jutted out into the water, and at that was docked a suh-weeet cigarette boat.

“Did we confiscate this house from some Colombian drug lord?” Colt asked as Roy got out.

They weren’t exactly pals quite yet.

Roy glanced at him, still a little miffed, apparently, at their throw down the other night. He sported a crack over his nose and a puffy eye, but enough of a look that Colt knew he’d earned Roy’s respect.

Which was why, yesterday, when they’d nearly had their second throwdown in Jethro’s kitchen at just who might be going along for the next leg of the journey—and Colt had offered an ultimatum, something cool and even, but ready if he had to put some say-so into his words—well, Roy had considered him a moment, then simply nodded.

Bam. A win for Colt.

Now, Roy shut the driver’s door and came around the side. He’d picked up their ride in a long-term parking lot outside Orlando International Airport. “It’s not ours. It’s owned by a donor of the Caleb Group.”

“Right. Named President Isaac White?” Colt said.

“Not White. It’s owned by a big-name movie star,” Roy said. “Winchester Marshall.” He gestured to the grounds. “All the security is to keep away the paparazzi.”

He thought he recognized the name, some action star. Tough gig then, pretending to get shot at while guys like Colt . . .

Aw, it wasn’t worth it.

More, given the heat on his skin, the sun coming up, the salt that ladened the air, and the sound of waves on the endless beach across the road, this might be the slickest protection detail he’d ever scored.

Even if he’d probably spend most of it locked away underground, watching Tae stare into a microscope. Still, it was better than returning to Alaska and sitting around watching his brothers move forward with their lives while his ribs healed.

And his heart stopped hurting.

Physically or otherwise.